Part 19

These unbelieving jesters, who so audaciously defied the fatal omen, did not seem to realize that a popular superstition is not to be laughed out of existence in so summary a manner. Equally futile was the attempt to put it to a scientific test, as, if tried by that means, it appears that, of any group of thirteen persons, the chances are about equal that one will die within the year. Therefore, the attempt to break the spell by inviting a greater number of persons could have the effect only of increasing, rather than diminishing, the probability of the event so much dreaded.

It has been stated in the newspapers, from which I take it, that there are many hotels in New York which contain no room numbered thirteen. There are other hotels and office buildings wherein the rooms that are so numbered cannot be leased except once in a great while. In large hotels one custom is to letter the first thirteen rooms and call them parlors. Another custom is simply to skip the unpopular number, and call the thirteenth room “No. 14.” A man who had just rented an office which bears the objectionable number, in a down-town building, asserts that though he has no superstitious dread of the number, he finds that others will not transact business with him in that office. I also find it stated as a fact that the new monster passenger steamship Oceanic has no cabin or seat at the table numbered thirteen.

It was again instanced as a deathblow to a certain candidate’s hopes of a reëlection to the United States Senate, that repeated ballotings showed him to be just thirteen votes short of the required number. From the same state, Pennsylvania, comes this highly significant announcement in regard to a base-ball team: “Because the team left here on a very rainy day, and on a train that pulled out from track No. 13, the superstitious local fans (sic) are in a sad state of mind to-night, regarding the coincidence as an evil omen.” Again the small number of six, in the graduating class of a certain high school, was gravely referred to as owing to there having originally been thirteen in that class.

At the same time there are exceptions which, however, the superstitious may claim only go to prove the rule. For instance the Thirteen Colonies did not prove so very unlucky a venture.

As regards the superstitions of actors and actresses, the following anecdote, though not new, probably as truly reflects the state of mind existing among the profession to-day as it did when the incident happened to which it refers. When the celebrated Madame Rachel returned from Egypt in 1857, she asked Arsène Houssaye, within a year thereafter, the question: “Do you recollect the dinner we had at the house of Victor Hugo? There were thirteen of us,--Hugo and his wife, you and your wife, Rebecca and I, Girardin and his wife, Gerard de Nerval, Pradier, Alfred de Musset, Perrèe, of the Siècle, and the Count d’Orsay, thirteen in all. Well, where are they to-day? Victor Hugo and his wife are in Jersey, your wife is dead, Madame de Girardin is dead, my sister Rebecca is dead, De Nerval, Pradier, Alfred de Musset, and d’Orsay are dead. I say no more. There remain but Girardin and you. Adieu, my friends. Never laugh at thirteen at a table.”

The world, however, especially that part of it represented by diners out, goes on believing in the evil augury just the same. A dinner party is recalled at which two of the invited guests were given seats at a side table on account of that terrible bugbear “thirteen at table.” When mentioning the circumstance to a friend, he was reminded of an occasion where an additional guest had been summoned in haste to break the direful spell.

Unquestionably, the newspapers might do much toward suppressing the spread of superstition by refusing to print such accounts as this, taken from a Boston daily paper, as probably nothing is read by a certain class with greater avidity. It says “that engine No. 13 of the Boston, Hoosac Tunnel & Western Railroad has, within three weeks, killed no less than three men. The railway hands fear the locomotive, and say that its number is unlucky.” It is true, we understand, that the standard number of a wrecked locomotive, that has been in a fatal accident, is not unfrequently changed in deference to this feeling on the part of the engine-men.

It is held to be unlucky to pass underneath a ladder, an act which indeed might be dangerous to life or limb should the ladder fall. But it is even harder to understand the philosophy of the dictum that to meet a squinting woman denotes ill luck.

The bird was formerly accounted an unlucky symbol, perhaps from the fact that good fortune, like riches, is apt to take to itself wings. The hooting of an owl, the croaking of a raven, the cry of a whip-poor-will, and even the sight of a solitary magpie were always associated with malignant influences or evil presages. Poe’s raven furnishes the theme for one of his best-known poems. And the swan was long believed to sing her own death-song. Be that as it may, the fact is well remembered that a ring, bearing the device of a bird upon it, or any other object having the image of the feathered kind, was not considered a suitable gift to a woman. That article of superstition, like some others that could be mentioned, has vanished before the resistless command of fashion, so completely indeed, that birds of every known clime and plumage have since been considered the really proper adornment for woman’s headgear.

There is, however, an odd superstition connected with the magpie, an instance of which is found related by Lord Roberts, in “Forty-one Years in India.” We could not do better than give it in his own words: “On the 15th July Major Cavagnari, who had been selected as the envoy and plenipotentiary to the Amir of Kabul, arrived in Kuram. I, with some fifty officers who were anxious to do honor to the envoy and see the country beyond Kuram, marched with Cavagnari to within five miles of the crest of Shutargardan pass, where we encamped, and my staff and I dined that evening with the mission. After dinner I was asked to propose the health of Cavagnari and those with him, but somehow I did not feel equal to the task: I was so thoroughly depressed, and my mind filled with such gloomy forebodings as to the fate of these fine fellows, that I could not utter a word.

“Early next morning the Sirdar, who had been deputed by the Amir to receive the mission, came into camp, and soon we all started for the top of the pass.... As we ascended, curiously enough, we came across a solitary magpie, which I should not have noticed had not Cavagnari pointed it out and begged me not to mention the fact of his having seen it to his wife, as she would be sure to consider it an unlucky omen.

“On descending to the (Afghan) camp, we were invited to partake of dinner, served in the Oriental fashion on a carpet spread on the ground. Everything was done most lavishly and gracefully. Nevertheless, I could not feel happy as to the prospects of the mission, and my heart sank as I wished Cavagnari good-by. When we had proceeded a few yards in our different directions, we both turned round, retraced our steps, shook hands once more, and parted forever.”

The sequel is told in the succeeding chapter. “Between one and two o’clock on the morning of the 5th of September, I was awakened by my wife telling me that a telegraph man had been wandering around the house and calling for some time, but that no one had answered him. The telegram told me that my worst fears had been only too fully realized.” Cavagnari and his party had been massacred by the Afghans.

Again, there are certain things which may not be given to a male friend (young, unmarried ministers excepted), such, for example, as a pair of slippers, because the recipient will be sure, metaphorically speaking, to walk away from the giver in them.

There is also current in some parts of New England a belief that it is unlucky to get one’s life insured, or to make one’s will, under the delusion that doing either of these things will tend to shorten one’s life. This feeling comes of nothing less than a ridiculous fear of facing even the remote probability involved in the act; and is of a piece with the studied avoidance of the subject of death, or willing allusion in any way, shape, or form to the dead, even of one’s own kith and kin, quite like that singular belief held by the Indians which forbade any allusion to the dead whatsoever.

Spilling the salt, as an omen of coming misfortune, is one of the most widespread, as well as one of the most deeply rooted, of popular delusions. It is said to be universal all over Asia, is found in some parts of Africa, and is quite prevalent in Europe and America to-day. Vain to deny it, the unhappy delinquent who is so awkward as to spill salt at the table instantly finds all eyes turned upon him. Worse still, the antidote once practised of flinging three pinches of salt over the left shoulder is no longer admissible in good society. Instantly every one present mentally recalls the omen. His host may politely try to laugh it off, but all the same, a visible impression of something unpleasant remains.

Something was said in another place about the potency of the number “three” to effect a charm either for good or for evil. Firemen and railroad men are more or less given to the belief that if one fire or one accident occurs, it will inevitably be followed by two more fires or accidents. A headline in a Boston newspaper, now before me, reads, “The same old three fires in succession,” and then hypocritically exclaims, “How the superstitious point to the recurrence!”

The superstition about railroad accidents is by no means confined to the trainmen, or other employees, but to some extent, at least, is shared even by the higher officials, who point to their past experiences in the management of these iron highways as fully establishing, to their minds, certain conditions. One of these gentlemen once said to me, after a bad accident on his road, “It is not so much this one particular accident that we dread, as what is coming after it.” I also knew of a conductor who asked for a leave of absence immediately after the occurrence of a shocking wreck on the line.

Although periodically confronted with a long series of most momentous events in the world’s history that have happened on that day of the week, the superstition in regard to Friday, as being an unlucky day, has so far withstood every assault. It will not down. Whether it exists to so great an extent as formerly may be questioned, but that it does exist in full force, more especially among sailors, is certain. We have it on good authority that this self-tormenting delusion grew out of the fact that the Saviour was crucified on Friday, ever after stigmatized as “hangman’s day,” and, therefore, set apart for the execution of criminals, now as before time.

It is not wholly improbable that some share of the odium resting upon Friday may arise from the fact of its being so regularly observed as a day of fasting, or at least maigre, by some religionists.

In some old diaries are found entries like the following: “A vessel lost going out of Portland against the advice of all; all on board, twenty-seven, drowned.” It is easy to understand how such an event would leave an indelible impression upon the minds of a whole generation.

Notwithstanding the belief is openly scouted from the pulpit, and is even boldly defied by a few unbelieving sea-captains, the fact remains that there are very many sober-minded persons who could not be induced on any account to begin a journey on Friday. There are others who will not embark in any new enterprise, or begin a new piece of work on that day; and still others who even go so far as to say that you must not cut your nails on Friday. A man could be named who could not be tempted to close a bargain on any other day of the week than Thursday. It is a further fact, which all connected with operating railroads will readily confirm, that Friday is always the day of least travel on their lines. This circumstance alone seems conclusive as to the state of popular feeling. Apparently a brand has been set upon the sixth day of the week for all time.

Numerous instances might be given to show that men of the strongest intellect are as fallible in this respect as men of the lowest; but one such will suffice. Lord Byron once refused to be introduced to a lady because it was Friday; and on this same ill-starred day he would never pay a visit.

“See the moon through the glass, You’ll have trouble while it lasts.”

This warning couplet is still a household word in many parts of New England. It has been observed that even those sceptical persons who profess to put no faith in it whatever, generally take good care to keep on the right side of the window-glass. As bearing upon this branch of the general subject an incident is related by a reputable authority, as having occurred at a party given, not many years ago, by a gentleman holding a considerable station in life. It is therefore repeated here word for word.

“In the midst of a social chat, at the close of the day, a footman rather briskly entered the drawing-room, and walked up to the back of the chair of the hostess and whispered something in her ear; she immediately closed her eyes and gave her hand to the man, and was forthwith led by him from the room. The guests were rather astonished, but after the lapse of a few moments the lady returned and resumed her seat.

“Her sudden departure having occasioned a rather uneasy pause in the conversation, she felt it necessary to state the cause of her singular conduct. She then told us that the New Harvest Moon had just made its appearance, and it was her custom to give a crown to any of her servants that first brought the information to her when that event occurred; and that the reason why she closed her eyes, and was led by the footman out of the room to the open air, was that she might avoid the evil consequences that were sure to happen to her if she obtained her first glimpse of the Harvest Moon through a pane of glass. This lady was highly accomplished, and possessed remarkable sagacity upon most subjects, but was nevertheless a slave to a groundless fear of evil befalling her if she saw this particular New Moon in any other way than in the open air.”

It is passing strange, however, that the gentle and beautiful Queen of the Night should have been mostly associated with a malignant influence. Juliet pleads with Romeo not to swear by the “inconstant moon.” The traditional witch gathers her simples only by the light of the moon, as at no other time do they possess the same virtues to work miraculous cures or potent spells. It is also an old belief that if a person goes to sleep with the moonbeams shining full upon his uncovered face, he will be moonstruck, or become an idiot. I well remember to have seen the officer of the watch awaken a number of sleepers, who had taken refuge on the deck of a vessel from the stifling heat below. Milton speaks of